I wanted to worship her.
And maybe I did. In fact, maybe I only worshiped her, and at the end of the day we all need something more down to earth. We need to know that our snot and our tears are as acceptable as our pounding thighs and pulsing blood. Possibly she needed to know that her impossible eyes held as much pain as they did glory.
The minutes and years I spent between her legs – kissing her lips, savoring her cunt, and reveling in her release – were often followed by tears, but was that enough? Was my patience and my hope enough to remind her that being human is a glorious accomplishment in its own right? Or was my wonder simply a distraction that led us to sleep on opposite sides of the bed?
And how funny, that now, years later, I remember her aches as much as her sighs. Only now I remember her worry even as we clawed at skin and tore at clothes. Her clenched fist, tight in the sheets, when I first slid inside her, sits perfectly at ease next to her anguish and grief when she said goodbye to a home she needed to leave. Her pleas for more hang in the air next to her tomorrows.
But for me I needed to lose myself in the prayer. I needed to hope that perfection might be found in her kiss and enduring love might be caught in a slippery embrace. When our bodies were slick with sweat, and her skin sticky with come, the world was a place of beautiful relief. We meditated with cocks and cunts, and our breath was insignificant.
But maybe, in the end, neither of us was worthy of idolatry. Or maybe we simply needed more. Something whole. Something messier and something more intricate that simple beauty.
And yet, even now, when I think of her skin and her taste, all I know is that she was perfect in every way.
I can go from crying to coming in less than an hour. Maybe less than fifteen minutes if I put my mind to it, and if you suck my cock like you did last night.
I walked in with my face a mess and my body covered in slowly drying sweat. I smelled of smoke and lunch, and you wore nothing but black lace around your tiny hips and a smile on your face as you leaned back in the kitchen drinking wine. I poured it all out (not the wine), because you allow it and ask for it and let it be what it is. The tears slowed down, the wine sped up, and within ten minutes we lay on the bed, your head in my lap as I slowly grew hard.
We fucked slowly. Within seconds our bodies were once again covered in sweat, but we moved inside each other, feeling everything, and wanting nothing.
That’s not true, we wanted, but we lacked a goal. We lacked a future at all. Instead you held me where I was, I slid inside you when it felt best, and we moved exactly as we needed to pull the most pleasure out of a fucked up world. We whispered and nibbled, we pinched and slapped, but in the summer heat we mostly fucked, escaping everything and leaving nothing behind.
There are a million things that can make sex hot, but very few that make it easy. Love helps, but it’s not always enough. Kindness can do wonders, and a willingness to listen and try are life changing. But there’s nothing that changes sex more than complete and utter acceptance; a willingness to let everything be as it is and feel as it does. A trust that each desire will be met with love and each need will be matched by a similar honesty.
We came with fingers inside each other. We came with simple words and slow touch. We came without any fear at all, letting each other be where we needed to be: in tears, in love, in compassion, and in hope.
I never dealt well with her longings.
In the evenings, on the stoop of her building, when we sat smoking cigarettes and drinking red wine from plastic cups, she often grew quiet and thoughtful in a disturbing way. I could see the lines in her face change, and her whole body shifted into someone I didn’t understand.
“I don’t want to live a normal life,” she said.
“Who does?” I responded, as if that was enough.
“I mean I don’t want to live life normally. It’s not the same thing. I don’t mind going to work and getting up early on weekdays. I don’t care about the laundry or the bills. That’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean then?” I asked, picturing the life of an artist, sleeping ‘till three with an obsessive lack of caring about the details.
“You should know,” she whispered, lighting another cigarette. “I mean, you do know, you just want to forget.”
“I remember everything.”
“Do you remember when we had sex last week in the morning? I started to cry, and you stopped and kissed my eyes and told me everything was alright?”
I nodded, because it was the only thing to do. She often cried during sex, and I moved instantly from thrusting to holding her tight. Life was fragile for us both, and tears required comfort more than lust.
“Should I have kept going?” I finally asked, hoping to break the silence that had gone on too long.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, stealing the last of my wine. “What you did or didn’t do doesn’t matter. That moment? Those minutes of tears, sex, love, and confusion? That’s what I want. I don’t want a normal life.”
“I swear I’ll never understand you,” I said, leaning back and looking up at the darkening sky. The buildings across the street were silhouetted by the sun, and the streets were full of people longing for anything that didn’t involve tears.
“That’s okay too,” she whispered, leaning her head against my shoulder. “I don’t need your understanding.”
All I could do was kiss her hair, wondering if she would leave or stay. Wondering if it was true.
Wondering if any of it was enough.
I don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe I shouldn’t admit that, and I’m honestly not looking for sympathy, but it’s the truth. I didn’t set out to write an autobiography, and I hope that’s not what this is becoming. I haven’t lived long enough or deep enough to make that worthwhile, but I suppose most of us haven’t.
What type of ego is it that makes us believe we’ve seen a grain of truth that others might have missed? That we personally have some insight that is worth sharing with the world? I suppose any time an author picks up a pen he’s channeling some of that, and maybe it’s not ego after all. In fact, we’ve all been told over and over again that it might be our job to shine. It might be our obligation to shout every revelation we have out to the stars and see what comes back to us.
For a long time I was something of an individualist. Not in the Randian sense of the word, but I read the existentialists and I was obsessed with human potential. What could I do, all by myself? It was each of us against the world, struggling to be a voice in a vast and lonely darkness.
Somewhere in time, however I read other things. I sat in meditation, and I began to wonder if in the middle of that ego driven world was a myth that was had to overcome. What if each of us was not in fact separate? What if I returned to at least the basics of my early liberal theology and remembered that if god is anything, she is love? I devoured Tich Nan Han, Annie Dillard, and Alan Watts, and it all became clearer and less clear at once. We do not come into the world, Watts says. We come out of it. We are not people in an expansive universe, we are the universe, exploring itself through touch, taste and sound by being human. Just as my chair and my desk are made up of atoms, the only thing separating them being space and time, so am I a part of everything. You and I are simply separate tendrils of existence, all connected to one beautifully complex thing whose only desire is to see more. To learn more. To be more.
And maybe that’s why we like stories. My story is in fact all of our stories. Of course our lives our different, our experiences too, but it takes the totality of human existence to tell it correctly. It’s not a very practical philosophy, but I’ve never been the most practical man in the world. Realizing that you and I are the same doesn’t make it easier when we fight and it doesn’t make the stranger on the train platform any more terrifying on a dark night. But there are occasions when it makes all the difference; when I can pause just long enough to realize I am fighting with myself. I am afraid of myself. I, that is to say all of creation, am constantly looking inward and pretending it’s something other.
So if I ask myself again, what am I doing here writing these words down, maybe the answer is simpler than I expected. Maybe if I wonder about connection and struggle, if I question my ability to communicate and thus escape my loneliness, it’s much clearer. I’m writing this for the same reason I wrote letters in college. I’m writing for the same reason I got drunk and walked the street naked with old friends, and the same reason I kissed a girl in the rain and mud.
I do love you, you see. We are separate parts of the whole, cut off by our thoughts and our experience as a sensing creature, but we are one. And for all of my life I have been desperately trying to feel the truth of that in my bones and my blood. I’ve been struggling to look through the myth of our being separate, and experience instead the reality of our connection.
But of course, loving you maybe easier than loving myself…
(note: this is from a longer piece I’ve been working on for a while. It’s not my typical QNY fodder, but I wanted to share it anyway. Hope you don’t mind.)
We didn’t sleep all night.
It was hot, but we found our bodies touching over and over again, each time lasting longer than the time before. She pulled away when I caressed her arm, and I rolled over when her knee slid too high up my thigh. Early in the morning I watched, not feeling connected to my body or actions, as I leaned in and kissed her bare shoulder. When she turned to her back, her legs parted and her hand on her stomach, I didn’t look away.
When my hand replaced hers, neither of us moved it. When my fingers traced the edge of elastic neither of us said a word. Her leg pushed against mine, her hand felt my skin with intention, and I didn’t stop. She moaned when I touched hair, and she parted her thighs wider, seemingly holding her breath as I leaned forward until my hand was hovering above her wet skin. I kissed her cheek, my fingers barely tracing her, and she opened her eyes.
“Kiss me,” I whispered.
When her lips touched mine, my hand dropped, fingers opening her even as our tongues did the same. I pulled her to me, kissing her harder as she struggled with my boxers, pushing them down until her hand was around my cock. We moaned and squirmed, losing our few items of clothing until finally our sweaty bodies were just skin against skin and it was too much.
“I want you,” I said, climbing between her legs and pinning her arms above her head. “Now.”
“Yes,” she said, lifting her hips off the bed. “Yes, yes, yes.”
It took effort to penetrate her, and I finally had to reach between our legs and guide myself inside her. But when it was done, when we were as close as it was possible to be, time held still right along with us. I stared into her eyes, she slid her hands down to my ass, and then finally we kissed once more before we started to fuck.
She came within minutes, her legs wrapped around me body, her teeth pulling on my lip, and my cock buried inside her. I breathed her orgasm, never letting go of our kiss, even as she shuddered beneath me. I slowed down only enough to feel her around me, clenching and trembling as she came, and then I was fucking her once more, needing to join her in her release more than anything I had needed before.
When I came she was laughing, her body still in convulsions as I closed my eyes and arched my back, thrusting inside her over and over again as my orgasm ripped through me. My toes tingled, my hands went numb, and it felt like every ounce of life, soul, and heart filled her at the same time. I gave over completely, letting go of the world, and for a few glorious seconds I didn’t exist.
We kissed for a long time, my body growing soft inside her. Her giggles spread to me as I pushed her hair from her face and stared at her knowing eyes. She was prettier than should be allowed, and I loved her impossibly.
“Do you feel guilty?” I finally asked.
“No,” she whispered, touching my lips. “I feel stupid.”
“Because, you silly boy. If we had done that earlier, we might have fucking slept.”
I met Stephanie at an event somewhere on campus in our various roles as political organizers. It was important in college to be involved in something, no matter how little influence we might have on the world. A part of us knew it was a game, but we dove in headfirst with all the energy and enthusiasm of youth, and the skill of the same. We argued with each other mostly, because yelling about language was more accessible than having real conversations with people who came from different worlds. It was easier to discuss the nuances of feminist literary theory than it was to organize the Walmart employees, who just ten years earlier had lost well paying jobs at the now abandoned factories.
She had long brown hair with hints of red that felt like autumn. Her face was round, her hands strong, and she intimidated me instantly. Everyone knew she was a lesbian, and she had a friend with a shaved head. I was toying with my sexuality, as all of us were, and I tagged along to write letters, raise money, and stare at this woman who scared me and drew me in at the same time. But she flirted with me when I wasn’t paying attention, and we slowly began to spend more and more time together.
One afternoon I told her I was getting attached to her. We were walking and laughing and it felt like a natural thing to say. It was as close as I could come to saying I think I’m falling for you. I think I might love you, or at least want you. You make my heart do strange things, and I think about you far too often.
She smiled at me and shook her head. Don’t do that she said. Don’t ever get attached to me.
This was not all my love for all my life. This was not, I long for you too. And yet, there she was, still holding my hand as we walked through the falling leaves on a chilly afternoon. She smiled and she laughed. She leaned in closely to me, and at that moment I decided I wouldn’t mention it again. I had no illusions that my feelings might change, not that I really understood them, but I was sure that talking was the problem, not doing. Not being, or acting, because all of those things were easy. She didn’t tell me to go away. We were together, not separated by slow words and the post office, and I suppressed every urge I had to work something out with words.
The first time we climbed into bed she was on the phone with an ex-boyfriend. It’s not a romantic story, and even now I’m amazed at my nerve and her response. I was lounging in her room, like I had learned quickly to do, and she had been on the phone for nearly twenty minutes. She mouthed apologizes, but made no move to hang up. I finally stood behind her and wrapped my arms around her. She smiled at me over her shoulder and let her body fall against my own. When I slid my hands beneath her shirt she did nothing, and when I undid the button on her jeans she sighed as she wiggled out of them.
Before we ever kissed I knelt on Stephanie’s floor, my mouth between her thighs as she struggled not to give anything away to the man on the other end of the receiver. When she finally mumbled her goodbyes, we crawled to the couch where we lost the rest of our clothes. I’d like to say we made love, and maybe we did, but what I remember is that we fucked. We fucked and we fucked, hours slipping by with our young bodies somehow pushing us on through orgasm and recovery, until finally we were simply done. I held her and kissed her, and she caressed my face without saying a word. I choked back all the sweet things I wanted to say, and somehow I managed to let her smile be enough. I desperately wanted her words, but somewhere within me I knew that her breath and her skin were all she had to offer, and they were a far greater gift for it.
And so suddenly I had a relationship with no words at all. We saw each other most every day, we fucked hard and often, and we took longs walks and attended lectures and concerts together. We ate together, studied together, and did all the things that couples do without ever once mentioning that fact at all. For a long time it felt precarious, like it might fall and break at any moment, but as the months went by it was simply what it was.
It was love without words. It was a relationship without boundaries, and it was in fact a fragile and tactile thing, that while nearly impossible to destroy with action, could be brought down with a few simple words that I held in my throat each time they pushed to the surface.
I’ve never been good at separating love and sex.
It’s possible that I’m just not great at handling my brain chemistry, so when I’m buried inside someone, looking into their eyes as we fuck, I believe all those hormones that are pumped into my head telling me it’s love. I had a belief as a teenager that sex would fundamentally change any relationship—acquired god knows where—and it stuck with me for a long time. Combined with my physiology, it meant that not only did I accept it, but I expected it as well.
After saying I love you at just the wrong moment, I’ve had a lot of awkward conversations that didn’t always go over as I would have like. You know, when I said I loved you back then it was just as a friend. Obviously. Or maybe it was her who brought it up, often as a rejection formed in a question. You don’t really love me, do you? Why would you say that?
And worst of all, at least most of the time, was I love you too. After that we would both lie there silently wondering if we could take it back, or if we needed to double down on it and see where we ended up. Maybe it was love and maybe it was true. And now where do we go?
This might explain why I mostly fuck my friends now. With someone I’ve known for even just a year, chances are high I’ve been saying I love you for a long time before we ever crawl into bed. When it’s been even longer, when we’ve put off sex for whatever reasons we can imagine, it’s a different story altogether.
“I love you,” I’ll moan as we writhe on the bed, in the bathroom stall, or on the couch at a party.
“Aww,” she’ll whisper back to me with easy sincerity. “I love you too.”
(If you enjoy my writing and would like to support the blog, you can buy my novel or one of my dirty e-books on Amazon here. You can also contribute via pay pal on quickienewyork.com if you enjoy the content.)
She lay in bed when I walked in, the blankets around her waist and her hair a tangle on the pillow.
“I couldn’t sleep. I kept picturing you with her.”
“I’m home now,” I said, pulling off my tie and hanging my suit up in the closet. It was the most I could offer.
“I don’t like it. You shouldn’t leave me alone. Ever.”
“Should I just stay here in bed with you? For ever and ever?” I climbed naked beneath the covers and wrapped her in my arms. She backed up against me and clenched my fingers in her hand as she pulled me close.
“Yes. For ever and ever. Except when you go make coffee in the morning. Or order food. And maybe shower on occasion. No smelly boys allowed.”
“And what will you do with me all that time?” I asked, my body moving slowly against her. She reached one hand between us and took me firmly in hand, rubbing the head of my cock between her legs. I was barely hard, but she turned just enough to kiss me.
“I’ll make you fuck me. Just like this, with your arms around me as you promise to stay.”
And then I was inside her, and I would have promised anything. She sighed and pushed back against me as we moved slowly in the dark room. I kissed her neck and pulled on her hip bone, needing to be farther inside her than was ever possible.
“I promise,” I whispered, turning her head and kissing her lips once more. “We’ll never leave. We’ll never stop, and we’ll never get out of bed again.”
“And you have to make me come. A lot.”
My hand moved between her legs as she arched her back. Her thighs parted as my fingers found her, even as my other hand moved to her throat. I thrust faster and deeper, pulling her to me in so many ways. Her breath grew ragged and quick, and with each moan she moved closer and closer to the edge.
“When I get to five,” I whispered, letting go of her just long enough for her to catch her breath. “When I get to five you can come for me.”
She bit her lip and clenched around my hand and cock. I whispered the words in her ear, and by the time I reached three she was sobbing as her body shook and trembled. When I finally released her she screamed into the pillow; my privileged ears devoured every sound she made.
“I’ll always be here,” I whispered over and over again. “Always.”
I want to fuck you, love you, hold you, kiss you, taste you, and stare into your big blue eyes until I believe that maybe you love me too.
I want to undress you and kiss down the slope of your neck, stopping at your collarbone, your shoulder, and the space between your breasts. I want to feel you slide towards me, my knee parting your legs letting me feel just how warm you are. I want to kiss your stomach, laying you down, and looking up into those eyes wondering about everything. Those eyes that think too much and dream just the right amount, and those eyes that keep me from moving down just a few seconds longer.
And then I want to bite your thigh as I open your legs, my fingers grazing your lips before I open my mouth against you and taste your thoughts. I need to feel you arch your back and push up to me, wanting my tongue deeper, my lips softer, and my fingers cautious.
I can’t even write the words I want to hear you say, but they’ll come from your chest and your gut. They’ll come from your heart and your cunt, and by the time I’m kissing you I want all our options to vanish in a breath. I don’t need to watch or even open my eyes as I enter you because there is simply too much to take in without destroying the world. And as each second passes, our bodies slowly becoming closer until there is no farther to go, I’ll kiss your lips once more and listen to you moan out your want.
Simply put, I want to hear you, feel you, and taste you come. I want to see your body writhing, arching, aching, as I thrust within you, and I want to know the sounds you make when you can’t hold back any longer. I want to feel your teeth on my shoulder, your nails on my back, and your perfect body clenching around me as your scream my name over and over again until your voice is gone and there is nothing to do but open our eyes once more.
And as we lie there, my arms around you, our bodies slick with sweat, I want to once again stare into your big blue eyes and marvel that the entire universe can fit inside you.
(If you enjoy my writing and would like to support the blog, you can buy my novel or one of my dirty e-books on Amazon here.)
“Do you remember when you fingered me in church during the talky part?”
She was nestled between my legs with a blanket over her and a dress that was so short it was indecent. I wrapped my arms around her and kissed the back of her neck.
“Do you remember blowing me on the Megabus to Boston?”
She leaned back and grabbed my hand that was resting on her stomach. She slid it down her body, over her right thigh, and then finally between her legs to her very smooth and very bare pussy.
“That’s better,” she moaned as I brushed her gently with my fingertips. “Do you remember fucking on New Years while everyone else was sleeping around us? My brother was on the couch, but you slid inside me so slowly and quietly that no one woke up.”
She pushed back against me and I was hard against her ass in seconds. I pulled her to me and she a let out a gasp as I pushed two fingers deep inside her. She was soaking wet, and wiggling between my hand on one side and my cock on the other.
“I remember fucking your ass for the first time. You arched your back and bit your lip, and when I was all the way inside you told me never to stop. And then you fucked me back.”
She was moaning now and I moved between her clit and her pussy with quicker and harder attention. Her own hand joined mine, touching herself where she wanted it as I kissed her neck and mouth. My left hand was wrapped in her hair as she moaned between my legs and I could tell she was close.
“The first time you came inside me. And when you slapped my face in front of everyone, and the time you tied me to your bed and brought home a friend.” She was nearly panting.
“When you called your ex while I fucked you, or maybe the time you licked Steph’s clit while my cock was inside her. Or all the times you came around me, clenching and crying as we pretended it wasn’t going to ever happen again?”
Her body let go beneath my hand, and I pulled her back and kissed her mouth as she started to come. She arched up against my hand, her legs shaking and her muscles tight as she shook and screamed, my hand never once stopping. I pulled her hair harder and sucked her tongue into my mouth as she moaned, and her coming lasted for hours.
When she finally took my hand and brought it up to her chest it was all either of us could to do speak. I kissed her hair and she pressed my hand against her skin.
“Why did we break up, again?” she whispered.
(If you enjoy my writing and would like to support the blog, you can buy my novel or one of my dirty e-books on Amazon here.)
I always think that sex in the snow is going to be less cold and wet than it actually is.
The first time I fucked in a snowstorm I was sixteen and we were in the park all afternoon on a hill we were too old for but didn’t care. We teased each other until I actually got hard in the cold, and when I whispered that truth in her ear she pulled me into the woods with a wink. Let’s see if it lasts she said, pulling her thick pants down until just the glistening cheeks of her ass were visible, red from the cold and the pounding of the sled. We fucked for at least two minutes and I lost a glove. She tried to rub her clit with a mitten on and it was over before we started. Hot chocolate around the corner warmed us up but didn’t inspire more than kisses designed to warm our noses.
And then in college there was a hot tub outside and it was warmer at least. We fucked as the big wet flakes fell into our open mouths and eyes, and we laughed and laughed as we tried to find the best angle on the hard plastic seat. She actually came, much to both our surprise, and I kissed her ear and told her we were made for winter.
Years later I crawled into a tent buried halfway in a snow bank and it was too cold to take off anything. Even the fire not so far away didn’t offer much heat, and our attempts at love were padded with so many layers the best we could manage were kisses and words. When we finally did peal off our clothes, we climbed into one sleeping bag, naked for warmth. It was just barely big enough for one and we couldn’t so much as move let alone fuck. She told me she loved me for my body heat. I told her she was a fawn.
The other day we lay in bed looking at the tiny flakes as they felll from the sky and bemoaned the fact that we had to get up. The floor was cold and the wind crept through the cracks with icy fingers. We kissed for a moment, our hands sliding down to hips and thighs before the alarm went off once more.
“I like the snow,” I whispered.
She nodded but said, “sometimes I wish it was less cold and wet.”
She used to rub my come into her skin, claiming she was absorbing me slowly. She said that after a year of it we’d be able to communicate without using words at all, and we began to speak less and less. We drank coffee silently each morning, and our decisions were based on eyebrows and the touching of hands.
We fucked most every day, and she no longer had to ask me to pull out. In the moments after I finished she moved into an almost spiritual place with her eyes closed and her hands making circular motions across her chest and stomach. I’d watch her as I lay next to her in the dark, but it was hard to tell if it was working at all. Some nights after I came I felt even further away than ever before.
And then one Friday I realized we hadn’t spoken for an entire week. Seven days had gone by without us saying a thing. I pulled her to me and kissed her rather than getting dressed. She raised an eyebrow, but I dragged her back to bed and opened my mouth between her legs. I spent nearly an hour there, trying to think of the right words to use, but the longer I stayed the less I knew.
Finally she pulled me up and kissed my mouth as I slid inside her. I held her tightly, our bodies moving slowly but with great force. We gripped hands, strained muscles, and exerted every effort we had as we fucked, and when I came it was so deep within in her that for a moment we were one and the same.
She looked at me and smiled.
“I love you,” I said.
“I know,” came her reply.